Get Out or Die

by Jane Finnis

  “Evil men did this. It’s cruel and it’s wasteful.” His voice was low and angry.

  “But I think the attackers were interrupted,” I said. “One of them left his knife behind.”

  “Knife? Where?”

  “There, in the…” I broke off, staring, because there was no knife. Yet there had been one. I knew there had.

  “It was in the horse’s neck. A long, narrow blade, and a wooden handle with a jet inlay.” I felt shaken as I considered the implications. “Someone’s been back to fetch it since I was here before. Jupiter! They might still be around now.”

  “Not now.” He looked down at his wolflike hound. “Bran will tell us if he hears anyone. Won’t you, boy? On guard now, while I look round.”

  Both dogs lay down, and I stood watching, fascinated, as Hawk searched the ground, carefully and thoroughly, like a man looking for a gold piece in a hayfield. Occasionally he bent low to examine the trampled grass, the broken twigs, and the bloodstains. Sometimes he gazed at what looked to me like perfectly ordinary clumps of weed, or patches of earth with vague lines in them. He walked along the path beyond the clearing quite a way. He must have got to the road, but I lost sight of him, and the dogs and I stayed put. Then he came back almost to where we waited, and branched off the track, down the slope a few paces towards the little river. As he did so, his dog stood up and gave a low growl, and from behind us Lucky rumbled an echo.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  He looked at his dog. “Who is it, Bran?” Bran gave another soft growl in his throat, and twitched his big pointed ears. Man and dog stood still, listening. I listened too, but all I could hear was the faint breeze rustling the leaves, and a murmuring of the shallow river water.

  Then Hawk shrugged. “It’s all right. Only one of the woodcutters.” He turned and walked back towards me. “Well, this was a wild goose chase, I’m afraid. I can’t tell you much.”

  I was surprised, and disappointed. “Aren’t the tracks clear?”

  He shook his head. “This ground looks as if an army’s marched all over it. The tracks are all mixed up. There was more than one man, and they had a fight of some sort, and the horse was killed. That’s about it.” He sounded irritated, as if it was my fault his usual powers weren’t working.

  “No, really? I’d worked that out for myself!” I was about to say, but then my brain started, belatedly, to function. The dogs had growled, there were strangers about, and Hawk was being cautious in case of eavesdroppers. Which meant he probably had found something.

  “Oh well, if you can’t, you can’t.” I tried to inject the right note of resigned annoyance into my voice as we began to walk back towards the house, the dogs prowling behind, still uneasy. If we were being spied on, I must somehow invite Hawk into the mansio where we could be private, without arousing anyone’s suspicions. I racked my brains for a convincing reason.

  As we reached the stable yard, inspiration struck me. “By the way, do you need some more cough syrup for your little boy? Albia said he was wheezing like a hedgehog when she saw him yesterday.”

  “Yes, thanks,” he said, “I will take a bottle. It eased his chest before. I’ll bring you a nice fresh hare tomorrow in exchange.”

  “It’s a deal. You may as well take the stuff now. It’ll help the poor kid sleep.”

  “All right. I mustn’t be long though.”

  Soon we were sitting comfortably in my study, he with a mug of beer, and me with some wine.

  “Did I guess right?” I asked. “You wanted to talk, but there was someone listening?”

  He nodded and sipped his beer. “The trees have ears. There was somebody there that my dog didn’t know.”

  “So you found something worth telling me?”

  He put down his mug. “Oh yes, I can tell you more or less what happened, as well as anyone can who wasn’t there to see. That horse has been dead since last night, throat cut with a knife as you said. From the tracks I could see five attackers on foot, and there was someone else there too, a lookout of some sort I’d say, keeping well back from the path—small footprints, maybe a woman or a boy. I don’t know who any of the attackers were, but they all had on Roman boots, with the uppers nailed and stitched onto the soles. They make quite different prints from native boots. They must have been bought in somewhere like Derventio or Eburacum, because our local cobbler in Oak Bridges makes boots in the traditional way, you know, each one just a single piece of leather. I’ve not seen any of those tracks before, but I’ll know them again.”

  “How?” I asked, pouring him a refill.

  “Boots with stitching or nails are all different from one another if you know what to watch out for. For instance, one of the attackers had very worn heels, and part of the stitching missing on his left sole. That sort of thing. The other two, the riders, had army type riding-boots, fairly new.”

  “Two riders? We’ve only found one.”

  “Two horses came down off the road, at a walk, both being ridden, with the attackers walking. Both men got off the horses, or were dragged off, in the clearing there, and the one horse was killed. There was a fight, and they both put up quite a struggle, but they hadn’t much chance against five. Luckily for them both, something interrupted the attackers. I don’t know what, maybe some odd noise scared them. One rider managed to mount up and gallop off towards the road, and the other was left here, bleeding. Quite a lot of blood, all in one place, so probably he was unconscious and they thought he was dead. Anyway the attackers ran away down towards the river. Eventually the wounded man crawled back along the track, up onto the road, and found his way to your forecourt. He was lucky they didn’t come back for him later.”

  “That’s brilliant, Hawk! Thank you.” I truly was impressed, and relieved that my faith in him had been justified.

  “Tell me one thing.” He fixed me with his piercing gaze. “The man you found, was he carrying any kind of message?”

  I handed him the bone disc with its grim threat, and he didn’t seem surprised, but nodded and stared awhile in thoughtful silence.

  “What does it mean, Hawk? You know something about this?”

  He put the disc on the table. “Just a few rumours. Have you heard of the Shadow-men?”

  “Shadow-men? No. Some sort of religious group?”

  “Not exactly, though the Druids encourage them. A war-band, but a secret one. The main thing about them is that they’re Britons of the old sort, who want to put the calendar back to before you Romans came. They’re mostly young and headstrong, just boys, but there are some older ones involved as well, training them to kill. Not like their ancestors killed, riding chariots into battle. The Shadow-men kill by stealth, at night. Their members are supposed to keep themselves secret, but some of the younger ones are easy to spot. They can’t resist showing off in their war gear.”

  “I’ve seen them.” I described the group of native warriors in the bar.

  Hawk’s eyes glinted. “Vitalis leads them, but young Segovax is the better fighter. They’ve been riding around for a few days now, just daring someone to give them any trouble.”

  “Yes, that was the feeling I got. They had a kind of tension, like a taut bowstring. But they’re only fooling about, surely?”

  “Not fooling, though they’re not dangerous on their own. But there are some more experienced men leading them, and they’re keeping themselves carefully hidden. This Shadow of Death, for instance.” He glanced down at the bone disc. “He’s their leader, but who he actually is, nobody knows.”

  “So this threat, ‘Get out or die’…they really want to drive us out?”

  “Yes.”

  “They seriously think they can?”

  “Yes.”

  “But that’s absurd!”

  “Is it?” He looked at me soberly.

  “It’s laughable, Hawk! We’ve got three legions stationed in Britannia, not to mention all the auxiliaries, and the navy. And then there a
re thousands of Roman civilians settled, helping to make something of the province. The Britons couldn’t defeat us fifty years back when old Emperor Claudius invaded, or in Nero’s time when Queen Boudicca rebelled. That was thirty years ago, and we’re even more firmly established these days. They must see they’ll never do it now.”

  He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “They’re trying different tactics. Think about it. Your army’s unbeatable in battle, yes, but can it fight secret enemies in the dark? Can it protect all you civilians from small groups who murder at night and melt away in the morning?”

  “All the civilians? Surely we’re just talking about a local band of rebels?”

  “Maybe so, at this stage,” he agreed. “But their plan is to succeed in Brigantia, and then encourage other tribes to rise up against you. I pick up rumours, you know, just as you must do here, only my sources of rumour are different. What’s happened here today is meant to be just a beginning, and the situation for Romans will get worse before it gets better. If it gets better.”

  We were interrupted by a tap at the door, and Albia looked in. She smiled when she saw Hawk.

  “Relia, Councillor Silvanius is here, and he says you’re expecting him.”

  “Gods, I forgot he was coming. Is it about his wine order?”

  “He didn’t say. He seems a bit agitated. I’ve put him in the garden with some wine and cakes. Felix is with him.”

  “That’s a relief. Silvanius can be a shade pompous, but Felix always brings him back to the real world. I’ll be with them in just a little while.”

  “And Albia,” Hawk added, “best not to say you saw me here. Our esteemed Chief Councillor doesn’t approve of me.”

  “Don’t worry. I told His Pomposity that Aurelia was in a meeting with the oil wholesaler. Just sneak out through our private door, he’ll be none the wiser.”

  “I suppose you and Silvanius are like chalk and cheese.” I smiled as I tried to picture Hawk wearing a toga.

  “You could say that! It’s not a personal thing, we hardly know each other. But I’m a Briton, and I’m proud of it. I don’t even want to be a Roman.”

  I sipped some wine. “Whereas Councillor Publius Silvanius Clarus is determined to be more Roman than the Romans.”

  Hawk snorted contemptuously. “He makes himself ridiculous! That vast new villa, and his Greek major-domo, and his Italian chef, and wanting Oak Bridges to be a proper Roman town, and building his very own temple. Yet underneath it all he’s no more a Roman than I am.”

  “Well, he’s a citizen, and so was his father. I suppose that does make him more Roman than you are. And if he wants a Roman life, I’m hardly going to criticise him for that, am I? Live and let live, surely?”

  Hawk shook his head. “That’s just what he doesn’t do, though. He wants everyone to live exactly like he does. And I refuse to follow his shining example, so he thinks I’m against Roman rule. He can’t see the difference between someone like me, and these Shadow-men. But I’m not against Romans, Aurelia. You’re here, and we should all make the best of it. You came, you saw, you conquered. Isn’t that how it goes?”

  I laughed. “Quoting Julius Caesar! Silvanius would be impressed.”

  “Astonished, more like. He thinks I’m ignorant because I didn’t have a Roman education. But all I am is just proud of being born and raised in the way my ancestors were. I don’t want to be a Roman citizen, but I don’t think every single thing that comes from Rome is wrong, and I certainly don’t believe everything about Britannia is perfect. I hate Druids, for a start, and I think endless wars between tribes are a futile waste. At least you Romans have brought us peace. Until now,” he added sombrely.

  “You take these Shadow-men very seriously, don’t you? You think they could upset the Roman peace?”

  “It’s not impossible. But they’re wrong, as wrong in their way as Silvanius is. Killing isn’t the answer.” He paused and fingered his beard, searching for words. “There must be a middle way, between what you could call the extreme pro-Britons on one side, and the extreme pro-Romans on the other.”

  “I hope you’re right. Because I’m proud to be Roman, but my family have been here for half a generation, and it’s where I want to stay. It seems to me this province will only have a real future if we can take the best of both Britannia and Rome and blend them together.”

  He smiled his rare smile. “That’s what I think too. That’s why we can be friends. For all our differences, we’re two of a kind.”

  It was true, and comforting, with all this talk of trouble brewing. I raised my wine-mug to him. “To our friendship,” I said, and we both drank the toast.

  Chapter VI

  Silvanius and Felix were sitting comfortably at a table near the ornamental pool, with the best wine-service—the green with the black slip decoration—and some of the little honey and hazelnut pastries that Cook is famous for.

  Publius Silvanius Clarus was fair, fortyish, and starting to run to fat, but still large and imposing. He had been born in Brigantia, a local chieftain, but his family had lost no time in throwing in their lot with the new conquerors, and now his whole appearance was Roman, his hairstyle, his lack of beard, and his toga. Yes, he was wearing his toga in the middle of an ordinary working afternoon! But of course, the citizenship was an honour he treasured, and it meant, among other things, that he was entitled to wear a toga, so he’d wear one at every conceivable opportunity. I caught myself wondering if he went to bed in it.

  Titus Cornelius Felix was the complete opposite. He was fair and fortyish too, but slim and lithe. Rumour said he’d been an actor once, in Nero’s time when such a thing would be respectable, more or less, for a gentleman. He was a Roman from Rome, one of the prestigious Cornelius clan, which meant his pedigree went back to when Romulus was a lad, and he could dress as he liked. His style was usually somewhere between a romantic poet and a racetrack dandy. Today he was wearing a bright yellow cloak fastened with a huge gold-coloured brooch, and matching yellow boots trimmed with golden studs, and his yellow hair was done up in a complicated arrangement of ringlets that must have taken his barber half the morning.

  Not for the first time I thought what an odd friendship theirs was, but I knew it was based on a firm footing. Silvanius was rich and wanted desperately to be accepted as a Roman, and to adopt Roman tastes in everything. Felix had plenty of class and impeccable taste, but no money, and he wanted equally desperately to maintain a flamboyant lifestyle. So they’d become pretty well inseparable, each giving and taking. It appeared to work better than many marriages.

  They both got up as I approached. Silvanius shook my hand, and said formally, “It’s good to see you, Aurelia, as always. I trust you’re well?”

  Before I could answer, Felix flung his arms round me and kissed me on both cheeks, exclaiming, “Aurelia, my dear, you look as ravishing as ever! Marry me this afternoon!”

  “I’ll think about it, Felix.” I disentangled myself from his embrace, but not too roughly. “Let’s have some cake first, shall we?”

  This sort of nonsense was pretty usual from Felix; sometimes it could be a shade embarrassing, but not to Silvanius, who smiled indulgently.

  We all sat down again. I refilled their beakers, and passed round the pastries.

  “You’ve come about the wine for your banquet, Councillor?” I prompted. Silvanius was giving an important dinner soon, and we were supplying several kinds of wine for it; this must be the third time he’d come to check on the order. “It arrived safely three days ago from our wholesaler, and it can be transported to your new villa whenever you like. Just say the word.”

  “Wine? Ah, yes, of course. As soon as possible, then, please. Arrange it with my major-domo, if you would.” He paused. “That was why I came, I suppose. But now…there’s something else.”

  He relapsed into silence, and I waited. I had learned to let Silvanius tell things in his own pompous way, so I just gazed at the pond, trying to sp
ot the frogs among the water plants.

  Eventually it was Felix who set the ball rolling. “It’s these horrid murders, my dear,” he said, reaching for another pastry. “It’s too awful, isn’t it? Three corpses! All stone dead!”

  “As corpses tend to be,” I couldn’t help saying, and he laughed. “Except that our victim isn’t a corpse. He was alive when we found him, and still is, although he’s unconscious most of the time. When he is awake, he seems to have lost his memory.”

  “How very intriguing! So you don’t know who he is?”

  “Not yet, but we’re working on it.”

  “You were the person who found the man, I’m told,” Silvanius said. “It must have been an unpleasant shock for you.”

  I shrugged. “I was just relieved he wasn’t dead.”

  “The whole situation is extremely disturbing,” he continued, absently twisting his wine-beaker between his hands. “So I wanted to make sure you are coping with everything, and not feeling too alarmed. We Romans,” he declaimed, “must stand together at a time of crisis.”

  Here we go, I thought. I’ve heard his “Romans standing together” speech so often I could recite it for him.

  Felix, thank the gods, had heard it before, too, and decided to divert the flow. “Absolutely,” he cut in. “And while we’re standing together, we must put our heads together, if that isn’t physically impossible. We’ve got to decide what to do.”

  “Exactly,” Silvanius said.

  I thought so! Silvanius wanted my advice, but didn’t want the world to know he’d asked me for it. Well, it wasn’t the first time, and discretion is part of an innkeeper’s stock-in-trade. I waited with what I hoped was the right air of attentive anticipation.

  “Three murders,” Silvanius said. “Correction, three attacks. You’ve heard about all of them, presumably?”

  “We get news pretty quickly here. I’ve heard of one headless body found on the Eburacum road, and another one in the forum outside Balbus’ shop.”